


If I Were Gay…

by Charli



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Dream Sex, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charli/pseuds/Charli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James May is not gay.  No really he’s not.  Honestly.  Totally not gay in anyway shape or form.  Except for this one time…</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Were Gay…

James had learned, from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, not to tuck his shirts into his waistband. It gave him a longer line through the body, making him look taller and slimmer. Not that he would admit to either of his colleagues that he had ever watched it, or that he worried about his weight, or even his height. That would just be three more nails hammered into his totally not-gay coffin.

James liked pastry. He liked brown ale and red wine and spam. Baked beans. Hot buttered toast on thick white bread. The most exotic thing he was known to eat was a chicken korma. There was a rumour among the crew that he’d once vomited the better part of a lamb passanda down Jeremy’s right leg. James wasn’t saying one way or the other, but it would be a manly thing to do. Only a straight man would dare to vomit on Jeremy Clarkson.

James liked to eat. And he liked to drink. And he detested exercise. He considered the walk to the pub energetic enough. There he would down pie, mash and a couple of brews, and then a slow walk home again, with Fusker winding merrily through his legs. And that was not gay. That was most definitely not gay.

His exercise came from organising his tools, working on his bike, banging about in the shed. James was definitely not worried about his weight.

But he still left his shirts untucked.

And then the hurricane that was Hammond happened.

Hammond with his post-accident highlights and tight cycling shorts. And his tailored shirts. And his strong arms grabbing James around the waist, whilst remarking “You’re putting on weight mate. It’s not attractive.”

Not attractive? To whom?

“You need an exercise regime.”

“I do just fine.” James said stoutly.

“You look like you’re about 3 months pregnant in that t-shirt.”

James plucked at the material and tugged it away from his body. “Why do you never say these things to Clarkson?” he asked.

Richard raised an eyebrow “Because Jezza knows he’s a lardy arse. And he doesn’t give a shit. You, however, know better.”

“I do.”

“You do. A little exercise will get rid of that paunch.”

“How little?” said James, wondering if an extra trip to Tesco’s to pick up one of their Finest steak and kidney pies would count.

“Come for a run with me?”

“I don’t run.”

“Make an exception.”

“I don’t run. It’s unseemly. It interferes with my gentleman vegetables.”

“Wear lycra. It’s good for holding things in.” Came the suggestion.

James looked closely at Richard, was he being serious? Where the hell was this conversation headed?

“I am not running and I do not look pregnant. This t-shirt just shrunk a little in the wash is all.”

“You know what’s really good exercise?”

James sighed “Surprise me.”

Richard grinned, “It’s something you’d enjoy.”

“Is it a pasty eating contest? Or does it involve drinking your own body weight in beer? Because otherwise I’m not really interested.”

“Sex.” Said Richard matter-of-factly, “Think about it.” And so saying, he turned and walked away.

With who? With Hammond ?!

James coughed up a lung, turned an alarming shade of red and had to be rescued by a production assistant with a cup of water. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

James shook his shaggy locks “I’m really not.”

“Do you need me to call for one of the paramedics?”

“No, I need to go and have a long lie down and not think about anything for quite a long while.”

Which is exactly what he proceeded to do.

*

The problem with trying not to think about anything is that you invariably end up thinking about something. And it’s not usually something you want to think about.

The Stig was a fascinating entity. There was the guy who was the Stig; of course they knew who he was. And then there was the Stig himself. Somehow the suited man was different from the man in suit. Stig, the suit, was a silent and stealthy conundrum.

He sat down next to James, and James looked at his tousled reflection in the Stig’s tinted visor.

“Alright mate?” James asked affably.

Stig nodded and then put his gloved hand on James’ thigh.

James raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t move. In fact he went rigid. In several places.

Here he was, in the Top Gear Production office, with Stig’s hand on his thigh and a semi in his jeans. James swallowed hard. Stig removed his hand and took of his gloves.

And then he took of his helmet.

And then the unmasked Stig, the man James knew, the man who was not a strange, silent entity, unzipped James’ jeans, slipped a hand inside and closed his fingers over James’ cock.

James felt like he was drowning. He was struggling under water, gasping for breath, fighting to move against the downward pressure. And suddenly Stig’s hand wasn’t the issue anymore and rigor mortis took over James’ body as Stig’s warm mouth closed around his erect penis.

James gasped and opened his eyes…and stared directly at the ceiling of his bedroom.

There was no Stig, no hands, no lips, no blow job. James’ limbs were tangled in the duvet and he could feel his cock was still hard, still throbbing from the memory.

James was blinking at the bright sunlight streaming through the window and wrestling with the bed covers when suddenly his bedroom door bulged and then exploded open as a tousle-haired and very naked Jeremy burst into the room.

“Christ alive!” James exclaimed and tried to hide his erection that was still making a tent under the duvet.

Jeremy leapt onto the bed next to James. Well not exactly leapt, he did have a tricky hip after all, but still it was a nimble movement for the man mountain. James scootched over to the far side of bed and tried not to look at the hairy nakedness before him.

“What the fuck are you doing here and why are you naked?” James asked in desperation.

“Apparently your subconscious wants to have sex with me.” Jeremy said and shoved a hand under the covers and started groping about for James’ genitals.

James swatted at the hand “Are you saying I’m still asleep?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m saying you’ve been hiding from this for too long.” And James let out an involuntary gasp as Jeremy’s hand found what it had been looking for.

“Look mate, no offense but if I were going to be gay, it wouldn’t be for you. Or the Stig.”

Jeremy looked hurt and relinquished his grip on James’ cock. “So who would you go gay for then Captain Slow?”

James paused in thought and then groaned as something heavy landed hard on his chest.

Fusker was staring into his eyes, with a look that said “Get out of bed and feed me you bastard.”

James looked around. No Jeremy, no Stig. No erection. No damp sheets. Things were looking promising. And as he scratched the top of Fusker’s head he knew he was fully awake, in that way you do after you’ve been having trouble waking and each consecutive dream feels like reality until that point when you really do reach consciousness.

“I’m not gay.” He told Fusker.

Fusker waved his tail and yowled loudly.

“Oh what do you know, you’ve had your bollocks chopped off.”

*

James liked Sundays. Sundays were a gentleman’s day. Nothing to do but read the papers, stroll to the local for a pint, clean the bike and eat slices of his mother’s fruit cake washed down with copious amounts of hot tea.

As he was about to do the latter, slice of aforementioned cake raised to his lips, his doorbell chimed into life. James sat there for a moment and debated whether to answer it. It was Sunday after all and the Jeezy Creezy lot tended to come out on Sundays, as did his rabid fans. Was it really worth getting up just to give a polite “Sod off.” to some poor soul?

As he contemplated, the bell rang again. “Cock.” He muttered and wandered to the door.

Through the crazed glass he could make out a familiar shape. He opened the door just as Richard pressed his finger to the button again. “All right mate?” Richard said breezily and pushed his way past James into the house.

James closed the door and followed him into the living room. “What are you doing here? It’s Sunday. Aren’t you supposed to be in the countryside milking cows or shooting rabbits or something?”

Richard picked up the plate with the untouched fruit cake on it “I’m here to save you from yourself. And just in time I see.”

“Sod off Hammond.”

James took the plate from Richard’s grasp and pointedly took a large bite out of the cake. “Mmm, Mother triumphs again.” He plonked himself down on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Richard sat down beside him and looked James squarely in the eye. “Are you absolutely, one hundred percent positive that there is no extra curricular activity that you would wish to become engaged in with me?”

And suddenly the cake was sawdust in James’ mouth, and those brown eyes were boring a hole deep into his heart. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he choked on his words.

Coughing, James reached for the tea and, in his flustered state, threw it all over his lap.

“Oh cock!” he exclaimed and jumped up.

Richard was beside him in an instant. “That could burn, or stain.” He said helpfully “We need to get you out of these trousers this instant.” And his hands started grappling with the waistband of James’ jeans.

Before he knew what was happening, James was standing in his shorts and shirt, his jeans puddled around his ankles and Richard’s face was getting closer to his. And then, as he tried to draw breath, Richard’s lips were on his, and Richard’s hands were getting tangled in his hair and pulling him in closer to deepen the kiss.

As their tongues met, James could feel tiny electric shocks coursing through his veins, finding their way to his cock, which began to stir.

“But I’m not gay…” James mumbled into Richard’s mouth.

“Sure mate, whatever you say.”

And as Richard dropped to his knees and tugged James’ shorts down, James thought that if he were gay, then it would definitely be with Richard.

After all, it would be rude not to.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Foot Off the Brake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/340455) by [katwithallergies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katwithallergies/pseuds/katwithallergies)




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